


A Man of His Mettle

by jaclynhyde



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Fighting As Foreplay, M/M, non-graphic description of amputation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 12:24:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11486340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaclynhyde/pseuds/jaclynhyde
Summary: "There is no trial for you," he said, voice quiet. "Why are you here, Cor Leonis?"





	A Man of His Mettle

**Author's Note:**

> I did not expect this to be the first thing I wrote for FFXV or for Gilgamesh, but here we are. Many thanks to my exquisite beta vanishinghitchhiker and to pookaseraph, whose [meta post](http://pookaseraph.tumblr.com/post/159198184411/cor-vs-gilgamesh-fight) gave me some ideas.

Cor never thought he'd return to the site of the Trial, not when the shame of defeat first burned in his chest. Nor in the years after that, when he'd seen so many die for ego and glory, leaving that many more gaps in the wall holding back the tide of darkness and daemons. Gladio, though—he'd suspected from the start he would succeed where Cor had failed. Maybe because Gladio was already and always the sworn shield of the Chosen King, would have fought and died for him with or without the Blademaster's blessing. So Cor had come back. The least he could do was show Clarus' son the way.

Why he was back _again_ , only days after Gladio had done what he couldn't—well, the Immortal had won his glory. His ego had been deflated thirty years since. Whatever it was that was left—

Cor scoffed, the echo surprisingly loud against the cave's walls. Hell, he wasn't in the habit of lying to himself. He knew why.

Sword at the ready, Cor began retracing his steps.

He could feel the presence of the Blademaster's troops, souls forever guarding a well-trodden path, as he made his way to the first cluster of corpses strewn on the ground. Still sprawled where he and Gladio had killed them for the thousandth time, still waiting for the next challenger to play at life again.

Hand tightening on the hilt of his sword, Cor stepped forward, waiting for the spirits to strike.

"Fool," spoke a sudden voice. It echoed with an unworldly timbre—but no, too high and scornful to be _his_. "The Shield of the last King of Lucis has already been chosen. Have you returned to seek your death?"

Cor carefully maneuvered around the bodies and bones, ready for an attack from any direction. "Couldn't find it last time."

"Neither did you find the Blademaster's blessing." Cor continued his advance, keeping a careful eye out for the twitch of a moving corpse.

A moment passed, long enough for Cor to answer, if he wanted. But he wasn't about to be provoked by the truth anymore.

The voice snarled. "We've no need for his _castoffs_."

Then, there was only silence.

Even as he stepped past the lifeless bodies, through the tunnel that had been a gauntlet decades and days ago, through the cavernous chamber where the Blademaster had first tested him and found him wanting—there was only silence.

And as he approached the waiting entrance to the first trial chamber, no sword or chains barring the way, he knew there would be no trial for him this time. His troops had already tested him, already warned him, already fallen to him.

They hadn't said a word back when he dragged his half-dead body out of the cave, either.

Mouth tightening into a scowl, Cor sheathed his sword and set out on the familiar path.

* * *

The going was quick without any battles to slow his pace, quicker even than when he'd blown past every safe haven in his youthful fervor. It was only a day's hike to the place that loomed so large in his memory, the corpses strewn along the path reduced to just macabre window dressing.

Outside, climbing the rickety scaffolding winding up the cliff face—this time, Cor paused, taking a moment to look out at the canyon, at the sky, at the stars just beginning to show.

There were worse places to die.

Not much longer to go, now. But after all that, at the end of the trail, there was just one barrier that remained.

There, barring the way to the innermost sanctum, was the crystal door that had stood fast years ago, days ago. A crystal door missing the ropes and flags that had once marked it, missing the scabbard holding the sword that would unlock it.

Had any challengers made it here after Cor did, before he returned? Would the door have opened without the key? Was there a replacement for the sword stolen by a frightened and bleeding boy, needing a replacement for his own?

Standing before the door (for the third time, for the last time) Cor unsheathed Kotetsu and let the key sing to its master.

The crystal dissolved, and the bridge lay before him once more.

It hadn't changed, the way the air went cold and quiet inside the chamber, not a soul to occupy the space that belonged to the Blademaster. That, he'd remember until the day he died. The footsteps that intruded on the silence, though—this time they were measured, heavy, instead of the wild beat of a boy who raced towards his destiny at the end of a bridge. One long enough to hold the swords of the thousands who had fallen at his hand, swords as old as recorded history, swords once held by those Cor had fought alongside.

But there were no new swords since last he stood outside the sanctum, no trophy wrenched from the hands of the King's Shield. And there was no familiar katana adorned with beads and leather and the Crownsguard insignia, not anymore.

But the man who had last wielded it—

At the end of the bridge, he alone remained.

As he stepped onto the bridge, the figure at the end raised its head—facing him, waiting, meeting his gaze. The glow of those eyes pierced his heart, past the years of focus and training, to the boy who still burned with his failure.

Suppressing the shiver that threatened to run through him, Cor made his way across, eyes not leaving his opponent's.

No one knew so thoroughly of his humiliation as he. _Let him see_.

And there he stood, closer to him than he had ever been but for the time they had fought, the moment Cor's blade slashed through his arm.

Voice even, he spoke. "Blademaster."

"Immortal," said Gilgamesh, and Cor could have been fifteen years old again, anticipation singing in his blood as he faced the implacable swordsman. Except his stance had shifted, compensating for the missing weight of an arm, and his voice— His voice was just that of a man, and Cor had to wonder if the echoing he remembered was an illusion built up in his mind in the intervening years.

But those inhuman eyes were no less intimidating, even after all that time. Cor's hand was already gripping the hilt of his sword, ready to draw, to continue the battle that had never really concluded.

But Gilgamesh simply held his gaze, making no motion to strike. "What do you fight for? For the king you cannot save?"

"He's not my responsibility." Not this time, not this king, not now that someone has succeeded where he had failed. Cor looked deliberately over Gilgamesh's left side, where chainmail and torn fabric hid the stump of a shoulder. "Maybe I wanted to finish the job."

"There is no trial for you," he said, voice quiet. "Why are you here, Cor Leonis?" Cor blinked, startled, because— Gilgamesh shouldn't know that. He'd never identified himself, back then, hadn't told him anything except his intention to defeat him.

Either he really could read minds, and those eyes could see right through him like it seemed, or he had found out his name. Had spoken of him to the challengers ready to face their deaths. Had asked who he was.

Either way, the answer didn't change.

"I want a fight." Even as he said it, he knew Gilgamesh saw right through him, knew that— "I want to know why."

Gilgamesh held his eyes for a long moment before stepping back with an incline of his head. The answer he was looking for, then. Gilgamesh held his hand up, magenta energy dancing around the blade that materialized there. A rapier, for now. "Are you prepared to earn that answer?"

"Yeah." Thirty years of shame it had taken, thirty years without realizing Gilgamesh had taken up his sword, had spoken of him, had learned his name. He was no longer brash, no longer invincible— "Are you prepared to give it?"

But he was not afraid.

Magic swirled, red and shimmering, as Gilgamesh shifted into a fencing stance. "If you are worthy."

And as the Blademaster lunged forward, aiming for his heart, Cor stepped easily aside before launching his own counterattack. Aiming for the heart. But neither of them would die today, not without a trial, not when Gilgamesh had already had the chance to kill him like so many others but let him go.

Maybe that was what had taken him so long to come back. Maybe he hadn't been ready until he once again was sure he would not die.

He very nearly smiled, nearly grinned with the exhilaration as his thrust was met with a broadsword, Gilgamesh's style switching as easily as the new sword came into existence. "Gonna show me anything new?"

"Do you believe you've already seen all I can do?" He parried, then made a quick jab that Cor just as quickly dodged. "Two thousand years of training, all displayed in a skirmish against a near-child?" The way he sounded, the taunts more familiar than the warnings they once were—Cor could almost imagine Gilgamesh smiling, behind the mask.

"Ever thought some of those moves could've saved your arm?" He couldn't resist taking a jab at his remaining arm, then, and that was definitely an amused noise as Gilgamesh easily blocked the attack.

"Perhaps." Bringing his sword up, he pushed Cor's away—even now, the sheer power of his swing nearly unbalanced him—and opened his hand as his broadsword dissolved into nothingness. Cor's eyes caught Gilgamesh's, and for a moment neither of them moved. There was only the wind over the bridge, the sound of their breathing, Cor's heart pounding in his chest. And Gilgamesh, standing vulnerable.

A perfect opening.

An _obvious_ opening.

He moved at the same time Gilgamesh did—dashing past him as raised an axe over his head, moving out of range of the heavy blow. But then Cor's feet fell from under him, ground shaking from the shock of the axe slamming into the ground with superhuman strength. He wasn't aiming for him at all—

"Are you so sure _you_ can avoid the same fate?" He swung down again, Cor already rolling through the vibrations shaking him down to his bones. Through the roll, he kept his eyes on Gilgamesh as best he could—on the vanishing axe, on his hand reaching back to grab—

One, two lunges before Cor scrambled to his feet, swung his sword up to deflect the thrust of a spear. Even with a one-handed grip, Gilgamesh's blow would have sent Cor back to the ground had he not braced himself. But with the parry, Gilgamesh faltered, and it was Cor's turn to go on the attack. Fast and brutal, Cor aimed for his chest, his arm, whatever he could reach past the spear handle swung to block him.

With Cor on the offensive, with no way to switch weapons without losing ground, there was nowhere for Gilgamesh to go but back—

And up.

He still remembered the first time he saw the Blademaster leap into the air, like a damn mountain that had suddenly learned to fly. He was young, and cocky, and had run _towards_ his landing point in the hopes of catching him off guard. And then the Blademaster had landed on him, slamming him to the ground with a spear tip through his lung. Only the phoenix down Clarus had forced him to bring saved him, that and the instinctual twist of his torso that kept the spearhead from his heart.

Had he been less young, and stupid, he would have known he was outmatched then. He would have run away, before the Blademaster crushed his hand badly enough that he couldn't hold a sword to continue the fight.

He wouldn't have lunged at Gilgamesh's arm, finding an opening, through sheer instinct and adrenaline, where he could slice through the flesh and bone. Wouldn't have seen the dark—blood? ichor?—flowing from the wound, wouldn't have seen his glowing eyes widen in shock as they met his.

He wasn't young now. He wasn't cocky, or stupid. And he'd learned a lot since their last battle, since he'd seen that leap into the air and hungered to follow.

Cor went forward, and up.

Vaulting off the ground, he had the satisfaction of seeing those eyes widen again when Gilgamesh's head whipped around to find Cor's face level with his own.

He was no dragoon, but Cor had no intention of being left on the ground again.

His sword met Gilgamesh's, held protectively, defensively against his chest. Which gave him the momentum to push off, to land lightly on his feet and spring back at the Blademaster as soon as he landed. To catch him off guard again, to hear his breathing turn labored as he blocked Cor's swings, as he failed to meet one. To move in when he stepped backwards, to sweep his leg as he slammed the flat of his blade against his chest, to send him _down_.

Gilgamesh landed hard, sword disappearing from the hand bracing himself on the ground. And this time, Cor hesitated before striking. Because Gilgamesh was breathing harshly, shoulders heaving, and his head stayed bowed. There were no more weapons, no more tricks.

He'd won.

Thirty years later, and he'd finally beaten the Blademaster.

And now all there was was the sound of their breathing, Cor's heart pounding in his chest, and Gilgamesh crouched before him.

Cor stepped forward, steadily, to stand before Gilgamesh once more. He'd left a wound on the Blademaster's arm—a shallower one, this time—and still, it bled the blood of a daemon. Had he bled red for his king, two thousand years ago? Had he been young, and brash, and eager for immortality?

Gilgamesh raised his head, then, and Cor's heart had not yet stopped racing.

"Do you yield?" His voice was nearly a whisper.

He could just barely perceive the movement of his eyes, taking stock of Cor's own wounds, the favored ankle that would hurt like hell in the morning, the sweat trailing from his hairline down his neck. "You are not the spitfire you once were."

"Yeah." Cor took another step forward, eyes finally level with his. "Someone humbled me."

"I _tempered_ you," said Gilgamesh, and Cor would have sworn his voice echoed on the word.

He stood face to face (mask) with him, now, and the charge between them hadn't ended with their fight. "You kneel," he said, voice steadier than he expected. "Do you yield?"

Gilgamesh made a low sound—couldn't figure out what it meant, not when he couldn't see his damned _face—_

"To kneel," said Gilgamesh, "is not to submit." He raised a hand to his own face, then, and Cor's breath caught in his throat as Gilgamesh's fingers closed on the edge of his silver mask. Eyes locked on Cor's, he removed it, deliberately let it drop. He might have been human, once, millennia ago—might even have looked human now, but all Cor could see clearly in the dusk was the burning light of his eyes.

And then Gilgamesh leaned forward, face close enough to feel warm breath against his lips—and continued downward, until his hand braced against the ground so his large frame could curl in on itself, so his mouth could reach Cor's—

" _Fuck_ ," breathed Cor.

Fingers trembling—couldn't really blame his loss of composure, not with the Blademaster's mouth dampening the fabric of his pants—Cor unbuckled his belt and unzipped his fly. He was hard, of course he was, might have been hard from the moment they clashed blades. With Gilgamesh's arm holding him up, it was up to Cor to pull down his trousers, his underwear, before he could wrap his hands around the silver ponytails brushing against his legs.

Then there was nothing keeping the Blademaster from mouthing his cock, tongue warm and wet against his skin, and Cor's legs might have given out entirely if not for the massive hand holding his hips steady. The mouth on him, the lips, the tongue circling his head felt human enough, but he couldn't look away from those godsdamned _eyes_.

Cor reached an hand out to push his hood back, to see the dim light of the moon and stars catching in his hair. "Missed my sword?"

Gilgamesh's eyes narrowed, just barely—right before he effortlessly took him fully in his mouth, and whatever Cor was saying next was swallowed by a moan. "Fuck," he gasped, again, and let himself shallowly thrust into his mouth. Hell if the sight of the Blademaster on his knees before him, mask discarded on the ground so he could _blow_ him, wasn't the hottest thing he'd ever seen. The grip on his hip tightened, thumb brushing an encouraging rhythm, and the low rumble around his cock may have been a chuckle.

He was distracted, sure. It still took him longer than it should have to realize how many hands were in play.

"What—?" Tearing his eyes away from Gilgamesh's lips to the pressure on his hip, Cor saw—magic, red and shimmering, in the shape of a hand, an arm that felt as solid as the one he had severed.

An arm that could surely hold a sword, had he needed it.

"Didn't think you went easy on anyone," he said, flatly.

Gilgamesh pulled away, Cor managing to ignore the wet pop his mouth made coming off his cock. "You fight without the magic of your king," and by the Astrals, his voice was hoarse. "And I, Immortal, would not fight you without my souvenir." The hand on his hip, the pressure of his fingers, dissipated, and then Gilgamesh looked just as he'd left him, all those years ago.

He reached out, fingers brushing the ragged edge of chainmail, left unmended for decades. And underneath—torn fabric and scarred skin, an ugly wound healed by whatever magic or medicine Gilgamesh could find in his lair. Cor traced his fingers over the scars, feeling Gilgamesh shiver under his touch.

He'd won his respect, won it thirty years since. Just took him a while to figure it out.

Cor returned his hands to the Blademaster's hair, tugging him back in, back to his erection. And as Gilgamesh licked a stripe up his cock, the grip on his hip returned, pressure just on the edge of pain. His fingers tightened roughly in his hair—and yeah, the warning scrape of teeth was hot, but Cor wasn't enough of a spitfire to think he had the upper hand in this position.

So he loosened his grip and just let himself follow the rhythm Gilgamesh set, as steady and deliberate as he always moved (right until he struck), his breathing as harsh as it was in combat. It had been a while, that was why the heat was coiling in his belly quicker than it usually did, why it was becoming harder and harder to hold himself back. Not the intensity in Gilgamesh's face, not in the uncanny eyes watching his every reaction.

"Blademaster," he said, and whatever he was going to say was lost when Gilgamesh outright groaned around his cock. So that's what he likes? Fingers tangling in his hair, Cor growled, " _Gilgamesh_." And he thrust into his mouth, hard and fast, Gilgamesh matching his rhythm—until he pulled his mouth away, breath still hot against his skin.

"Immortal," Gilgamesh breathed, shimmering hand working Cor's cock just long enough for him to speak. "Word of your deeds will pass my lips for as long as I live." And then he engulfed him again, head bobbing faster and faster, tongue moving against all his length—

His eyes slammed shut, finally, and all he could feel was that mouth and his hands, hands on his hips and his thighs and the base of his cock and everywhere, everywhere that he couldn't have reached. And Cor came with a shout, loud enough for every damn spirit to hear the welcome the Blademaster had given him.

Cor opened his eyes in time to see Gilgamesh swallowing, eyes half lidded, and he was beginning to resent the codpiece hiding what must have been an impressive view. He'd need some practice before he could return the favor, but he was already good with two-handed weapons.

Gilgamesh passed a hand over his mouth—tongue flicking out to catch what little fluids remained—before collecting his mask and standing as gracefully as if he'd never gone down.

And there they stood, Cor's neck craned to look him in the eyes, just as they had each time they'd met. Except Cor was—well, more _relaxed_ than he'd been in a long time. And Gilgamesh wore no mask, wore bound hair in disarray from Cor's fingers, wore a look of satisfaction with hunger burning behind it.

Cor took a breath. "Why did you let me go?" he asked, for the first time aloud.

"I hoped you would return." And there was just a hint of smile on his face before it was covered by the mask, before Gilgamesh dispersed into nothingness and left him alone on the bridge.

Cor cursed, quietly, and smiled.

Maybe he would.

**Author's Note:**

> Rejected fic titles (mostly vanishinghitchhiker's fault): Hard and Fast, Swordplay, Sword-Measuring Contest, Dick Jokes, A Farewell to Arm, Cor Scored and Thirty Years Ago, Blowjob on the Big Bridge, The Cor Came Back (The Very Next Day), My Immortal


End file.
